Lancelot du Lac
by Bryher
Summary: How Lancelot got his name. Oneshot.


**Title:** Lancelot du Lac.

**Rating:** K

**Summary**: How Lancelot got his name.

* * *

British weather had never been the most stable of climes, but in the heat and sunshine, the rain and wind seemed a distant memory.

Galahad lay stretched out on his back, basking in the sunlight like an oversized tavern cat, a soft grin on his face. Light blazed through his closed lids, tingeing the world in a red glow, spots dancing across the unusual sight- until a shadow fell across and grumbled, 'This weather is far too hot.'

Rolling onto his stomach, Galahad shielded his eyes with one hand and looked up. Lancelot stood above him, a slightly mutinous expression on his face as he glared at the bright sun as if in pique with the appearance he had so long asked for.

'So,' Galahad started slowly… 'You're annoyed that the sun has come out?'

Lancelot dropped into the grass beside the younger man, elbows resting on his knees. 'Yes.'

Warily, Galahad leaned away, pre-empting the possible strike to come his way. 'Why?'

'Because Arthur told me that I don't have anything to complain about,' Lancelot burst out, waving his large hands in irritation. 'Can I not just hate this damn country for what it is?'

Galahad dropped his face into the grass, trying not to laugh. 'Lancelot,' he said from among the green shoots, 'That is the most childish thing I think I've ever heard you say.'

Swiftly, the younger knight rolled away from the well aimed boot that headed toward his rear.

'Well it's true!' he crowed teasingly. 'You're always saying that there isn't any sun here, and as soon was we get some, you can't complain anymore!'

Lancelot said nothing, scowling down the hill. 'And what,' he snapped loftily, 'are those buffoons doing?'

Galahad twisted to follow the malevolent stare. At the bottom of the hill, a shirtless Bors and Dagonet were submerged to their waists in water, the small river running behind the fort widening out into a pool large enough for swimming. Although half obscured by a copse of trees, the shade looked inviting and the water cool.

Shading his eyes once more for a better look, Galahad grinned. 'Cooling off, I expect,' he murmured after a moment. 'Looks quite nice.'

'It looks wet.'

Sneaking a sideways glance at Lancelot, the younger man weighed up his options. 'I bet you'd feel less aggravated after a swim, Lancelot. You won't be as hot.'

Galahad waited for either an explosion of temper or an agreement. To his shock, the latter came.

'Fine,' the dark haired knight snapped, standing. 'I'll sit in the shade.'

Rolling his eyes, Galahad followed him down the hill, gingerly feeling his cheeks, which seemed to have slightly sunburned.

'Lancey!' Bors roared from the middle of the pool. 'Comin' in for a dip?'

'Not on your life- you'll drown us all with your splashing,' retorted Lancelot, settling onto a rock at the side of the pool. Conveniently, a tree leant over the water, directly behind it. Settling back, Lancelot folded his arms over his chest and watched as Galahad stripped and waded in. Pulling off his boots, Lancelot allowed his feet to sink into the water. His side of the pool was quite deep, and the water soothing.

'You should come in, Lancelot,' he called. 'It isn't so cold that you'll freeze.'

Lancelot said nothing, only scowling in response. 'What's the matter with him?' Dagonet asked quietly, lifting a handful of water to the back of his neck, which was raw and red, already starting to peel with sunburn.

'Eh,' Galahad said with a shrug. 'He's pissed because Arthur told him that now the sun is out, he can't complain.'

Dagonet raised his brows then rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 'He's never happy,' he said with a slight grin.

'Enjoying the water?' called a new voice. Gawain and Tristan stood on the opposite bank, tankards in hand.

'Gorgeous!' Bors shouted, waving his arms around. 'Why you drinkin' so early on in the day?'

Gawain smiled, raising the tankard. 'A bit of cider never killed anyone.'

Tristan grinned at that, finding his own spot of shade a short distance from the water's edge. 'Not yet, anyway,' he finished for the blonde knight. Gawain frowned, looking at Lancelot; 'What's the matter with you?'

Galahad waved his hands warningly, shaking his head- but, true to form, Gawain missed the warning totally; 'You've got a face like a slapped arse. The wenches won't be going to your bed tonight!'

'_I'll have you know_,' Lancelot roared, standing, 'that- _gah!_'

His bare feet had not found purchase on the slippery rock, and the hapless knight plunged with an almighty splash into the pool, vanishing beneath the water. For a fraction of a second, every single man had frozen in surprise, until, with a _whoosh_, Lancelot erupted from the water, gasping.

Hair plastered to his head, clothes drenched, his eyes were wild and his mouth gasping for air. He had never looked more ridiculous.

Gawain was the first to start laughing, his tankard dropping to the ground, cider flowing away as he howled, leaning his hands on his knees to stop himself falling over. Galahad was struggling to stay afloat, while Bors weakly grasped an overhanging branch, face red with mirth.

Dagonet, trying to hold back a smile, asked whether Lancelot was alright. The knight glared, his eyes daggers between sopping curls, totally ruining the effect. It only caused more laughter, and as he squelched out of the pool, he slid around in the waterside mud, arms flailing to keep himself upright. Snatching his boots from the water's edge, he marched back up the hill as quickly as he could in soaked leather trousers and a jerkin.

Gawain wiped tears of laughter from his face, trying to regain his breath.

'Lancelot du Lac,' Tristan said suddenly, trying to bite back a grin.

'Wh-what?' Galahad gasped, holding his stomach.

'Lancelot du Lac,' the scout repeated, smiling freely now. 'My tribe's language. "Du Lac" means "of the lake."'

'Lancelot du Lac,' Dagonet repeated. A huge grin spread over his scarred face, and he began to laugh. 'He's never going to hear the end of it.'

* * *

I know 'du Lac' is French, but I couldn't resist. I'll probably never write Tristan as a Gaul again, but it just seemed to fit.

I'm writing an essay right now on The Lady of Shalott, and this popped into my head. I hope you enjoyed!

Please review?


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